


The Movement of Molecules

by juliet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Touching, angels aren't human, molecules are weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet
Summary: “Aziraphale kept looking at Crowley’s hands, those hands that could never stay still. He kept thinking about touching: about touching Crowley’s fingers, and leaning against his shoulder, and about all those Crowley-atoms that made up his dear familiar corporation, and how here they were having saved the world and saved themselves and they’d known each other for six thousand years and they were still sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and he wanted, he wanted…They never touched. Why didn’t they touch?”Aziraphale has spent a long time not touching Crowley.





	The Movement of Molecules

“We’re on our own side now,” Crowley said, holding Aziraphale’s gaze for a moment before he looked away. 

He sat at the other end of the bench from Aziraphale, two feet of empty space between them, Crowley’s long arm stretched out along the back of the bench and a bottle of wine in his hand. Not touching. 

Aziraphale had spent a long time not touching Crowley. An angel and a demon…well, in theory both of them were safely encased in mortal flesh, but Aziraphale had seen Crowley react to consecrated ground, and then there was that whole business with the holy water. Aziraphale might not be holy like that, not in this form, but… 

Well. He’d never wanted to take the risk. Not even back before the Arrangement, when they were more like acquaintances than friends. He’d never wanted to hurt Crowley. 

Then, at the church, during the Blitz; it wasn’t just Crowley saving the books that had hit him as hard as it did. It was the brush of fingers, the sudden awareness of all the tiny pieces that made up Crowley’s corporation, the corporation that might not be Crowley, but was infused with him. As they touched, Aziraphale had felt Crowley’s atoms bumping up against his own, and for a moment he’d thought the flare through his hand was pain. But it wasn’t at all; it was the fire of Crowley’s self that had blazed through him, just for a second, before it was over. He’d told himself, afterwards, that it had to _stay_ over. Crowley was a demon. Whatever Aziraphale’s feelings might be, whatever Crowley might mean to him on the occasions when he could admit it to himself, he shouldn’t be…well, he just shouldn’t, and that was the end of it. 

And yet, after that, demon and angel or no, Aziraphale had yearned for that feeling again. Had yearned to allow his edges to meet Crowley’s, to feel that flare again. 

If Aziraphale tried, he could be aware of the world on any level, from the very smallest particles on upwards. But usually he reined that in. You couldn’t go along pretending to be human and interacting with them and all the rest of it if you were constantly aware of all that activity, all those dancing spinning little pieces, the joyous glory of the whole embodied world, all singing Her praises in every movement and interaction. You had to—pull back. He let it out, sometimes, in restaurants, just a little. Being able to appreciate a taste on multiple levels, one after the other, was one of his very favourite things in the world. Sliding down to experience the satisfying tiny shocks of molecules binding to receptors and ions flooding into cells, the flare of the electrical pulses that connected it all together; and then pulling back to experience the sensual pleasure of all those individual reactions becoming _taste_ and _texture_ and _smell_ all at once—it was glorious. 

Touching Crowley, though, the whole thing went out of whack. It wasn’t a controllable pleasure. It wasn’t something he could shut off. It reverberated through his mind and body, clanging inside him, tiny pieces of himself bumping against tiny pieces of Crowley, _exchanging_ even, just a little; and he could tell that they were Crowley’s in a way that never happened if he shook hands with a mere mortal, even if he let himself think on that level. Mortals were inert in a sense that had nothing to do with the microcosmic dance. Crowley’s curious, fascinated, dancing particles were anything but inert. They were Crowley in microcosm. Touching Crowley, even for a brief second, left him tingling and alight, aware of his own, and of Crowley’s, wholly non-mortal nature, of the _difference_ of the forces that held both of them together. Different from humans, that is. Very much the same as one another, sides or no. Crowley was suffused with his origins; his first origins. Touching Crowley made it clear that the distinction between them was far from robust. 

And they were on their own side now. The distinction, perhaps, no longer even existed. 

He’d told himself that he was worried about hurting Crowley. It wasn’t not true. What he had always worried about is whether he himself might be hurt. Not by Crowley, not deliberately—he hadn’t thought that for a long time. By the nature of the touch. 

He remembered them shaking hands, when the Antichrist—when Adam—had just arrived into the world. He’d felt it again then, that flare of awareness, the intimacy of that-which-was-Crowley, and he’d let himself rejoice in it, just for a moment, until they’d let go. He’d looked into Crowley’s eyes, and wondered if Crowley felt the same way; but he hadn’t dared ask, and Crowley’s gaze hadn’t flickered. 

Once, Aziraphale wouldn’t have said that he wanted touch. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, have said that he missed it, because there was nothing that he _knew_ , before, to miss. Angels in the divine realm didn’t have bodies or physical experience. Angels in the mortal world, on the rare occasions they came into it, tended to find physical existence both peculiar and perturbing. There were lots of reasons for Uriel to have pulled that face when they were shoving Aziraphale up against a wall, and at least some of them were the sheer experience of matter. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to remember Uriel’s touch. He didn’t want to remember Uriel pushing him into a wall. Crowley doing it, on the other hand…They’d been close, so close...Crowley’s hands had been fisted in three layers of good solid British wool and linen, but their noses, just for a second...But they were separate. They had to be separate. Whatever Aziraphale’s own traitorous edges might think. 

_We’re on our own side now._

Aziraphale had no idea what to do with any of this. 

* * *

The bus arrived. Crowley got on first. They met on buses, sometimes. Proper London ones, not this small rural affair. 

They never sat next to each other. Best to keep a safe distance. Crowley preferred to lean, to swing himself into the seat behind Aziraphale, to hiss in his ear. Crowley always had been good at hissing in ears. Aziraphale would feel him there, inches away, his breath brushing Aziraphale’s ear, molecules vibrating with his warmth... 

“Sit down, angel, and stop hovering,” Crowley said, words impatient but tone gentle, as the bus doors closed with a thunk. 

Crowley had sat right over by the window. There was…He could…The seat was _right there_. 

Aziraphale had spent a lot of time not touching Crowley. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with any of the things he’d been thinking in the last minutes, the last hour; but the one thing he was certain of was that he wanted to do things differently, now. He didn’t want to keep his distance, to be safe, to stick by Heaven’s rules. 

Daringly, slowly, giving Crowley time to look at him with that what-are-you-doing frown, he sat down next to Crowley. Crowley didn’t frown. Crowley didn’t look at him. Aziraphale’s shoulder brushed Crowley’s—through three layers of good British wool and linen, and whatever that jacket of Crowley’s was made out of. Crowley didn’t react. After a moment, he slouched, just fractionally, leaning very slightly into Aziraphale, warm against his shoulder. 

Aziraphale was fairly certain this was the closest they’d ever been to one another that wasn’t a fight, or Crowley shouting at him. 

It was…nice. Not that he’d say that to Crowley. Crowley didn’t like being called nice. Even though he was, a little, sometimes. 

It was more than nice. 

He could feel, even through the clothes that separated them, Crowley’s essence, the thing that animated all his atoms and molecules and particles. Everything that was Crowley, simmering through his corporation. He could feel it, and it soothed something he hadn’t known he was missing. 

His corporation, on the other hand, didn’t exactly feel soothed. His corporation wanted to lean further into Crowley. It liked the press of Crowley’s shoulder against his, and the feel of Crowley’s long lean thigh just touching his own leg. His corporation wanted more, and his soul was vibrating at the same frequency as Crowley was animating his molecules, and Aziraphale had no idea what to think about any of this. 

After a while, he remembered the burnt piece of paper, and pulled it out of his pocket again. 

The motion disturbed Crowley—had he actually been sleeping? Here, and now? Lazy old serpent—who made an enquiring noise and managed to slump a little further into Aziraphale without apparently moving. He had, now Aziraphale came to think of it, had an even worse day than Aziraphale himself. 

“That prophecy,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t much of an explanation. 

“Choose your faces wisely,” Crowley said, thoughtfully. “Huh.” Then, as if it was related, “Do you think you would have been able to borrow my corporation, the way you did that — woman, with the dress and the scooter.” 

“Madame Tracy. She was very helpful,” Aziraphale said, automatically, then his brain caught up with what Crowley was saying. “What? I mean. Surely not.” 

Crowley shrugged, serpentine. “Dunno.” 

“I mean,” Aziraphale said, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and once more very aware of all the places they were touching, all those Crowley-atoms so very close to his own, “I would have thought…the water, you see, and the consecrated ground.” 

“Holier than thou?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale winced. 

“Crowley. My dear. I am sorry about that.” 

Crowley looked away, out into the darkness outside the window. “Yeah, well. I said…some things, too. Both under a lot of strain.” 

“You didn’t go, though,” Aziraphale said. “To Alpha Centauri.” 

“Don’t think they have wine there. Seemed…yeah, well. Anyway. Maybe you’re right. Wouldn’t have mixed well.” 

“I think,” Aziraphale said, slowly, carefully. “I think we mix…quite well. Myself.” 

Did Crowley feel it, the way he did, when they touched? Pieces of their bodies bumping off each other, their essences meeting one another? Could Crowley tell? 

Crowley looked over at him, a surprised, pleased smile on his lips, as if…as if he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to say any such thing. Aziraphale swallowed. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” Aziraphale said. 

“Yeah, well.” Crowley looked away. “You’d have been stuffed without me, obviously.” 

“I’d have missed my best friend,” Aziraphale said, quietly. 

Crowley didn’t look over this time, but Aziraphale saw the corner of his mouth tip up in another, smaller, smile. 

Then it hit him. “That’s it!” 

“What?” 

“Mixing. Choosing our faces. Crowley, what are they going to do to us, if they catch up with us? I mean, it would be lovely if they just left us alone, but…” 

“Holy water,” Crowley said, pulling a face. 

“And hellfire,” Aziraphale said. “But holy water doesn’t touch me, does it?” 

“Hellfire doesn’t touch me.” Crowley was sounding interested now. 

“We can swap. Not sharing. Swapping.” 

“They’ll realise,” Crowley said. “They don’t just look at the body, you know.” 

“Yes, but...” Very gently, he moved his hand to touch Crowley’s, skin on skin. Crowley didn’t move; just looked at him, eyes wide behind those glasses. 

Aziraphale could feel him, every molecule of him, bouncing and fizzing against Aziraphale’s own molecules. “Can’t you feel it? All the little pieces of us. We can’t just…change, like you did to scare that paint person. You’re quite right, they’d notice that. But if we exchange…” 

Crowley’s eyebrows climbed slowly upwards. “Angel,” he said, admiringly. “You’ve been getting sneaky. I like it.” 

“I don’t like it,” Aziraphale admitted. “It’s far too dangerous, and I don’t want either of us to have to go and face anyone. It seems very unfair after what we’ve just been through.” What he wanted, right now, was to have a nice cup of tea, and maybe, although he didn’t usually sleep, a nap. 

“Yeah, fair,” Crowley said. “But given the other available options, I like it.” 

The bus pulled up, and Aziraphale realised with a start that they were outside Crowley’s flat. 

“Come on then, angel,” Crowley said, nudging him in the shoulder, and Aziraphale got up, and got off the bus, Crowley following on his heels. 

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t let himself think about whether he should be anywhere else; about whether anyone would have opinions about where he was going. He followed Crowley, into the lift and up to his flat. 

There was a puddle of dead demon on the floor. Dead demon and holy water. Any lingering doubts Aziraphale had been harbouring about his plan vanished immediately in his horror. That could have been Crowley. That still could be Crowley. 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Crowley said, grimacing down at what had once apparently been Ligur. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow, or…something.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale said, firmly. “It could kill you, Crowley. I’m not having it. Stay over there, where the…goodness me, Crowley, what on earth is that chair like? And to think you criticise my interior decor.” 

“Mine’s stylish,” Crowley said. “Yours isn’t.” But he moved, carefully, away from the puddle, and Aziraphale cleared it up first the miracle way, and then the human way where it had been on the floor, and then washed his own hands twice, with soap, after he’d taken off the rubber gloves. 

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, which might have been the first time Aziraphale had ever heard him say that. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “You’re very welcome. I mean, after…everything, it would be. Well. I wouldn’t want you hurt.” 

Crowley had taken his glasses off, and flung himself into that very uncomfortable-looking chair. “Yeah, well. You might not. I rather think Downstairs will.” 

“But we have a plan,” Aziraphale said, firmly. He wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to convince. He let himself down almost immediately by adding, “Do you think it’ll work?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t got a better idea, anyway. And it should do, right? It’s just…gross matter.” 

Aziraphale looked down at himself. “I’m quite attached to my own gross matter.” Then, realising what he’d said, looked up again. “I mean, not that yours isn’t…I don’t mean…It’s very nice. It’s very you.” 

Crowley was giving him that smile again. He wasn't entirely certain what that smile meant. 

“Anyway,” he said, hurriedly. “Do you think we should…now?” 

“I don’t think they’ll come tonight,” Crowley said. “Especially not my lot, after the whole holy water business. So what I suggest, is sleep. And we’ll go be really obvious somewhere in the morning, wait to get picked up. Get it over with.” 

“Sleep,” Aziraphale said. 

“I know you don’t, but I think I’ve blessed well earned it.” Crowley stood up and yawned. “Afraid I don’t have a sofa for you, angel. Or anything to read, come to that. Uh. Sorry.” He moved a couple of steps across the room, then paused, his back to Aziraphale. “Bed’s enormous, though, if you don’t like my chairs. Plenty of room if you do want. To rest.” He sounded very off-hand. So off-hand that he came back around again to being on-hand. 

Aziraphale really wished he understood what was happening between them. But right now, understanding or not, he felt an extremely strong inclination not to let Crowley out of his sight, and also he quite fancied seeing what this ‘sleep’ business was about. 

“Well, I don’t have a book on me...and I suppose in the absence of anywhere else comfortable...” Trailing off, he followed Crowley through to the bedroom. Crowley was right; it was an enormous bed. Plenty of room for both of them to lie down without coming anywhere near one another. That was...good, he supposed. 

Crowley flung himself onto the bed, fully clothed, eyes shut almost immediately. Aziraphale lay down, much more carefully, keeping a careful foot of space between them—he certainly wouldn’t rest if he was feeling Crowley like that all the time—and then he shut his eyes and waited to see what happened. 

* * *

Sleep turned out to be quite pleasant, in an absent sort of way. Aziraphale couldn’t quite see the appeal in the general case, but…well. It had been a very difficult day. Being absent for a while was a nice change. 

Waking up was less enjoyable. Especially when Crowley wasn’t there. Aziraphale had a horrible sinking moment of terror, and then he smelt coffee, and when he went through to the alarmingly shiny kitchen, there was Crowley drinking coffee, and a steaming mug of tea on the counter. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, fervently. 

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said, half-heartedly. Aziraphale beamed at him, and drank his tea. 

“Right then,” Crowley said, once both mugs were empty. “Let’s do this thing.” He paused. “How are we going to do this thing?” 

It wasn’t just looks, that was the thing. It wasn’t just rearranging their own physical constructs. They needed to actually borrow one another’s particles, or at least, the particles that they were using at the moment. 

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale said, hesitantly, and held out his hand. 

Crowley stared at it for a moment, looked back up at Aziraphale, raised an eyebrow, and then, cautiously, reached out to clasp the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers in the tips of his own. 

Crowley’s fingers felt cool in his, and they felt like Crowley, all those tiny pieces of Crowley touching all the tiny pieces of Aziraphale. He looked up, suddenly, worried, as Crowley made a slight movement—was this hurting Crowley? was he hurting Crowley?—but Crowley didn’t look like he was hurt. His amber eyes were just a tiny bit wider than normal. 

All the tiny pieces. That was the idea, wasn’t it? To…swap. 

Aziraphale looked back down at their hands, and concentrated, again, and felt his corporation…changing. 

Pieces of Crowley streaming past pieces of him. Millions, billions of them. His own familiar particles tingled as they drained out of him and into Crowley, immediately replaced by the flare of Crowley’s particles funneling into him, two parallel but opposite flows. As they transferred into him, they lost the Crowley-essence that Aziraphale had initially sensed as he took Crowley’s hand, but they kept—something, an impression of it. Just enough that it felt like having a tiny piece of Crowley, many many tiny pieces of Crowley, held inside and around him. 

It was…disconcerting. Aziraphale was going to stick to that word, and he didn’t want to think about any other possible words he might use. 

They both let go at the same time. 

“That is bloody weird,” Crowley-as-Aziraphale said. 

Aziraphale looked down at his hands. At Crowley’s hands. He was too far away from the floor, and for a moment, he thought he was going to fall over. Crowley was entirely correct, this was very peculiar indeed. But that wasn’t the point. The point was neither of them getting killed. 

“Well then,” he said, doing his best to sound like Crowley. “Let’s, uh, get this show on the road.” 

Crowley, in Aziraphale’s corporation, raised a very un-Aziraphale-like eyebrow, and gestured towards the door. 

* * *

Afterwards, once they’d fooled Hell and Heaven and were back on their bench; afterwards, they changed back, and let their hands drop. Aziraphale stretched his fingers out, allowing all his own particles to settle back in where they belonged. It was reassuring, but at the same time he felt oddly bereft. But it was ridiculous—wasn’t it?—to feel anything other than pleased to be back in his own familiar human corporation. 

Crowley was a long way away. That was how it felt, although there was only perhaps a foot of empty air between them. A foot of air meant that Aziraphale couldn’t feel him, not properly. He could sense the warm familiarity of Crowley’s presence wrapping him around, but he couldn’t feel him, not like he had when they sat on the bus. 

He wanted to reach out. But Crowley was carefully keeping that distance between them, and if Crowley didn’t want it… 

It didn’t matter. They were alive, and they were together, and the world was still turning. Joy bubbled up in Aziraphale, as Crowley threw back his head and laughed, more relaxed than Aziraphale had seen him in a long time. They’d done it. 

But alongside the joy, all through the rest of the day, he kept noticing that they weren’t touching. Through the walk through the park and the absolutely scrumptious dinner at the Ritz, through toasting the world with only a marginally excessive quantity of alcohol, through the walk back to the bookshop; that careful foot of air stayed there between them. 

They didn’t talk about whether they were going back to the bookshop. They just went. It was such a relief, bone-deep, to walk in through the door. He would have to have a proper look at what Adam had done to his books, but right now, he had a priority, and the priority was his wine collection. 

“Adam’s done a really excellent job on these,” he said happily, hunting through the racks. “What can I tempt you to?” 

“Happy to trust your taste, angel,” Crowley said, waving an expansive hand. “Or Adam’s, I suppose.” He made a face. “Mind you, he’s only eleven. I suppose he got it all from us, though, didn’t he? Not like he’s ever seen the bookshop, or my car the way it ought to be. Poking around in our heads. I dunno.” 

“We got it all back, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Everything.” Standing there in the bookshop, with Crowley, he felt the truth of it surround him. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “It’s all still here. We’re still here. I wouldn’t complain, if I were you.” 

“Point.” Crowley flopped into the sofa and took his glasses off. Aziraphale felt a tiny warm glow. He liked Crowley’s eyes; and he liked that Crowley felt happy to take his glasses off here, with him. He found the bottle he’d been looking for, and pulled it out triumphantly. 

“I’ve been keeping this one—well, one a bit like this one, I suppose not this actual one—against the next time you came round. It’s from Lebanon. It’s a while since we’ve been in Lebanon.” 

“Sounds good,” Crowley said, and snapped his fingers. A glass appeared. “Pour away.” He tasted it, and gave a pleased nod. “Yeah, not bad.” 

He slouched a little further into the sofa. Normally, Aziraphale would take the chair. But he kept thinking about touching, about hands, about… 

“Sit down, angel, stop hovering,” Crowley said, and gestured at the other end of the sofa. 

Aziraphale sat. 

They drank. And talked. It was lovely. Aziraphale kept looking at Crowley’s hands, those hands that could never stay still. He kept thinking about touching: about touching Crowley’s fingers, and leaning against his shoulder, and about all those Crowley-atoms that made up his dear familiar corporation, and how here they were having saved the world and saved themselves and they’d known each other for six thousand years and they were still sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and he wanted, he wanted… 

They never touched. Why didn’t they touch? 

“Why don’t we touch?” Aziraphale blurted out, halfway down the second bottle of Château Musar. 

Crowley stopped in the middle of ranting about whatever it was he was ranting about, and stared at Aziraphale. “Why don’t we…?” 

Aziraphale swallowed, but it was too late now. He had to keep going. “We never touch. Hardly ever.” 

“You don’t…want to,” Crowley said slowly, as if he were explaining something that was common knowledge and didn’t understand why Aziraphale didn’t get it. “Get behind me, foul fiend, and all that.” Crowley hadn’t moved out of his slouch, but his hand crept very slightly towards the sunglasses he’d taken off when he got through the door. 

“Maybe I do want to,” Aziraphale said, knowing that he sounded petty and ridiculous and unable to think of anything else to say. “Maybe I…” 

“Give over, angel. Six thousand years of carefully guarding your personal space and now you’re rethinking?” Crowley wasn’t meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “You’re just having a, a peculiar moment. The last couple of days were quite weird even by our standards. Have another drink. Stop fussing.” 

It would be so easy, to let it go. 

“I mean. The demon thing.” Crowley shrugged. “Best steer clear. Right?” His fingers twitched towards his glasses again. He was still slouching, but his entire body had tensed. 

He was avoiding this. Aziraphale didn’t quite know what that meant, but, suddenly, he didn’t want to let Crowley get away with it any more. 

“Crowley,” he said, sternly. “What on earth do you mean, _steer clear_? Literally today, we exchanged our entire corporations, piece by piece.” 

“Molecules, angel. They’re molecules.” Crowley took another large slug of wine. “Or possibly atoms.” 

“As far as touching goes…” 

“Special situation, sure, yeah, whatever. You know,” suddenly Crowley’s glass was empty, “I really ought to be getting along.” 

Crowley thought Aziraphale didn’t want to be close to him. Crowley thought this was about him being a demon. And why wouldn’t he, the way Aziraphale had behaved, all these years? This was all down to Aziraphale, and the stupid, foolish, cowardly fears that he’d been clinging onto all this time. 

Crowley had folded his arms across his chest. He was leaning away. He was going to _leave_. 

Crowley thought that Aziraphale... 

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale poured all the sincerity he could into his words, desperate for Crowley to understand. 

“For what?” Crowley asked, cautiously, poised to move. 

“For a lot of things. I’ve been wrong, about a lot of things, for a long time.” Aziraphale felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I thought that it mattered, that you’re a demon and I’m an angel. I thought I had to...I didn’t dare let myself get close.” 

“Hey, hey. Angel.” Crowley was frowning, leaning back in towards him, and the relief of that was huge, but it wasn’t _enough_. “It’s fine, okay? Don’t worry about it.” 

“It’s not fine.” Aziraphale wouldn’t let Crowley smooth things over, the way he had in the past, always, endlessly, making allowances for Aziraphale. Always coming back. “You were right. We’re on our side. We have been for a long time. And I let you down.” 

Crowley shrugged, awkwardly. “Worked out alright in the end, though, didn’t it?” His foot was twitching slightly. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “It did. But I should have realised before. I should have realised the very first time I ever sensed your pieces, your molecules. They feel so lovely, Crowley. They feel like _you_. It’s so very different, touching you, from touching anything else in the world. Why can’t we do that?” 

Crowley’s amber eyes were very wide. “We…can,” he said, very slowly. “If you…but you don’t want to, angel. You pull away, every time we come anywhere near each other.” 

“I don’t want to pull away any more,” Aziraphale said. 

Slowly, holding Crowley’s gaze, he reached out, and clasped Crowley’s hand. 

His awareness was all on his skin, on the point where they were touching, skin to skin. Tiny pieces of himself bumping into tiny pieces of Crowley, their dancing particulate whirl spinning through one another. The fizzing twining serpentine fire that was Crowley’s essence infusing this matter that was only contingently his, yet so very beloved, beloved now for years or decades or, Aziraphale was beginning to realise, millennia. Crowley’s hand tightened around his and the information flow became overwhelming. More so than when they’d deliberately let it flow, when they’d deliberately let those tiny pieces flow one past the other, exchanging. They were staying themselves, this time, and the movement kept repeating itself, over and over again. His sense of Crowley expanded, beyond this mere mortal sharing of fragments and out into the space where there were no mortal pieces any more, where mortal senses failed and Aziraphale’s self rang with the vibrations of Crowley’s self. 

Far away, back in the bookshop, their mortal bodies pressed together, and everywhere they touched Aziraphale felt Crowley against him, in pieces and in whole and beyond the whole. Aziraphale’s aethereal being was twisting, roaring, shuddering, and Crowley was there, Crowley was there alongside him, just the way he had been for the last six thousand years. It was the two of them, on their own side, always, always, and Aziraphale let himself sink into his sense of Crowley and felt Crowley sink into him, their selves commingling, wholly and always together. 

* * *

His ears rang as he pulled his awareness, slowly, reluctantly, back into his mortal form. He could still feel Crowley, all those pieces of him, dancing along the edges of his skin, but it was peaceful now, a warm humming awareness, not that huge vast overwhelm. It was Crowley, here with him, that was all. 

His arms were around Crowley, and Crowley’s around him, their bodies pressed together from hip to shoulder, chests pressed together, and Aziraphale’s head was on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley took a deep, shuddery breath, and Aziraphale felt it right through his body. 

Breathing. That was a thing, wasn’t it? 

Very gently, Crowley pulled back, just a little. Aziraphale resisted for a bare moment, then let him, but Crowley wasn’t going far. 

“Angel?” Crowley said. He sounded—tentative, his amber eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. 

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley’s expression shifted, his emotions moving too fast for Aziraphale to read; but he was an angel, and what he could feel, in this moment, was love. Love flowing between him and Crowley, between Crowley and him. Crowley leant in towards him again, very slowly, and brushed his lips, gently, against Aziraphale’s. The contact sparked through Aziraphale, all those dancing fragments of matter, all Crowley, all infused with love. Aziraphale kissed him back, gently, softly. A meeting of hearts in a meeting of lips in a meeting of matter. 

The kiss ended. They both looked at each other. Aziraphale never wanted to stop touching Crowley now, ever again. 

“Might get awkward,” Crowley said, dryness papering over the depth of the emotion in his face, and Aziraphale realised he’d spoken aloud. 

“I never knew,” Aziraphale said, and he meant a lot of things by that, things that they probably needed to say aloud at some point in the future. But right now, they were both here, and he could feel Crowley with every part of him. Right now it didn’t matter. 

“Yeah, well, you always were a bit slow,” Crowley said. “But we’re here now.” 

He settled back on the sofa, and Aziraphale went with him, pressed into him, still feeling the dance of Crowley’s self, and they rested, together.

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to [LauraShapiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro), outstanding beta and squee-partner.


End file.
